


The Pages of Time

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (2012) RPF, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the years, over the changes in their lives, Thorin and Bofur will always return to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

—

Bofur: 39 years

Thorin: 44 years

—

The main markets were always a success for all vendors involved, whether it be fruit and vegetables, fresh meat and fish, rug makers or furniture builders, the Dwarven markets was the only way Bofur and his siblings had any source of income. Their own stand, selling handmade and handcrafted toys were always good sellers, as they were made of the finest wood and utmost care and attention to detail. Mothers were particularly fond of the toys, they were more sturdy, and did not have any breakable attachments that young dwarflings could accidentally swallow.

Today was a very, very busy morning, children everywhere, climbing under tables and up trees, hanging precariously in their fun, ignoring their screaming parents from below. They had made a large profit today, which though not unusual, was always a welcome sight.

He had heard rumours of the royal Durin family visiting the marketplace, but paid it no heed. Many excited and rumour-causing children liked to make up such things, but inevitably, vendors believed their words, and wore their cleanest and tidiest clothes, hiding the hard, slaving work they performed in the early hours of the morning.

Bofur sat back, comfortably, before reaching for his carving knife and setting to work. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Bombur make a successful sale to a young dwarfing, not much older than himself. The piece was one of his brother’s best, a grand statue of a eagle that would serve nicely as a side table, the top small but durable, polished and gleaming in the sunlight.

He looks up, surprised upon hearing several of the town’s youngest maidens gasp audibly. He shifts around, attempting to look over their shoulders with increasing interest. Bombur gives him a rough shove and forces him to have a look for himself. Bofur is tall for his age, and can easily see the heads of the King, his heir and the prince, dressed in formal attire that would cost Bofur a yearly wage.

He quickly returns to his brothers, who look at him expectantly, “The Durin’s family have arrived,” he informs them, “all three.”

Bombur raises his busy eyebrows, seemingly impressed. “All three of them? How unusual.” He says, but turns and both he and Bifur return to their stations. Bofur scans the crowd again, and finds that the royal family have departed, the King and his son walking from vendor to vendor followed by heavily armed guards.

Bofur looks up when he notices the shadow of their next customer drape over the table. Upon recognising the face of the Dwarf-prince, Bofur’s heart thuds loudly in his chest as he watches the prince examine one of his handcrafted toys. The princely hair clasps that clung to his only two braids sat neatly against his chest. The prince is well groomed, beard clipped neatly, his clothing of the finest material - the deep blue fabric bringing out the beauty in his eyes.

Bofur cannot remember his name, though he knows his king’s and he knows the heir’s, Thror and Thrain. He rattles his brain for the prince’s name helplessly.

“These are fine craft,” the prince compliments, his voice is deep, and Bofur smiles at him bashfully. The other runs his fingers of the toy, carved into a lion made of the finest oak. “I would like to purchase this, please.”

Bofur would have happily just given it to him for free, but remembers that every coin is counted and their profits are much needed.

“That will be six dollars, majesty,” he replies nervously, and the prince nods and reaches to his pockets for change. Bofur accepts the coin from him with shaky hands. The prince gives him a small smile and turns to walk away, holding the toy tightly in his right hand. “It’s Thorin,” the prince tells him, “not majesty.”

Bofur smiles at him and bowes slightly. “As you wish, Thorin.”

Thorin gives him a nod and rejoins his father and king.

—

“‘nother day, ‘nother dollar,” Bofur comments, seemingly to himself as his brothers do not respond. He sets up the table as per usual, flinging a tablecloth haphazardly over his work station and begins to unload their toys and creations in order of price and make on the bench.

He makes several sales, only larger pieces today, many Men coming down from their camps to buy food and staying for the comfort of the fire in the middle of the marketplace and food they don’t have to hunt themselves. He informs Bombur to watch the counter in Inglishmek, signalling he is taking a break. Bofur is tired, and hungry and wants nothing more than to return to bed. He smiles broadly at the lass serving stew to the brim in wooden bowls, who smiles back and asks him if he wants bread. He takes his portion and sits on a log far enough from their shop that his brothers cannot complain about smoke from his pipe infecting their stand.

As he eats, Bofur looks around curiously at the other participants at the market, mainly vendors, and their families, many customer and visitors being entertained by Dwarven song and dance. Men sit with astonished looks upon their faces at the use of Inglishmek, asking with shocked voices, “you need not speak at all?” The dwarves accompanying them laugh and shake their heads, saying it’s a funny way to make jokes about others.

He does, however, notice the prince as soon as he sees him. Many bow to him as he walks by, but he raises a gentle hand and makes them stand and return to their duties. Today, unlike yesterday, he wears a princely crown, its setting simple but sitting extraordinarily pretty upon his head. The crown is silver, from what he can see, and has markings that match his ancestry shield and hair clasps.

Maidens coo and flutter around Thorin, and he smiles at them, but pays them no interest when they offer to service them. He shoos them away when they interrupt his footing, attempting to walk around the marketplace. They skulk away from him, disappointed, muttering under their breaths. 

“Taking a hard earned break, are we?” The prince asks and Bofur nearly jumps out of his skin, Thorin’s presence is to his direct right, having not seen him approach, Bofur is proud all his food remains in the bowl. He chuckles nervously.

“Uh, yes, I am! Been a busy mornin’,” Bofur responds lamely, trying not to act foolish. He breathes heavily, and nervously when the prince sits next to him on the log. Bofur can smell his soap from where he is sitting, he smells of pinewood and cinnamon. “What brings the prince to the marketplace?” He asks, feebly attempting conversation.

“The atmosphere here is incredible,” Thorin replies, his eyes scanning over the gathering crowds before settling on Bofur’s own, “it feels very homely here.”

Bofur nods his head in agreement. “Many of the vendors are family run, like my own. Men come down from the mountain pass eager for food when tired from their travels.”

Thorin raises his eyebrows in question. “Do you work with your father?”

“No, unfortunately, he died some years back. My brothers, Bifur and Bombur are toy-makers too.” He explains, internally worried he is rambling on to the prince who probably doesn’t care.

“I admire those who work so close with their family,” Thorin says.

Bofur quirks an eyebrow. “You do not get along with the King and the heir?”

Thorin gives a small shrug. “Of course, they are my father and grandfather. However, working with them, or for them in a business would certainly deem us bankrupt.” 

“Oh,” Bofur replies, “that makes sense, I guess.” He smiles at the prince who glances at him, and returns to looking out to the crowd. “You haven’t informed me of your name,” Thorin says. Bofur realises with a jolt, that he hasn’t. Feeling absurd and blushing like that of a maiden replies, “Oh! I’m Bofur.”

Ahead, Bofur notices one of the King’s guards approach and Thorin stands when an armed guard gestures for him. He grasps Bofur’s shoulder tightly before saying, “It’s nice to meet you, Bofur.”

Bofur does not sleep well that night.

—

It had been two days since he last saw the prince, and Bofur felt lost. He also felt like a love-sick fool. He knew meeting villagers and shop-keepers was a probable occurrence for a member of the royal family, but he is somewhat dismayed when Thorin does not make a presence during the day. The marketplace stays open longer on Fridays, due to the upcoming weekend, and it has been a long twelve hour day for Bofur. He considers getting a pint at the pub when he is interrupted by a cough behind him.

He turns and stares at the dwarf in front of him, unsure of how to address the guard, who bears the Durin’s chest on his armour. “Hello?” he tries, biting his lip. “Can I, uh, help you at all?”

“Are you Bofur, brother to Bifur and Bombur?” The guard asks him calmly, though impatiently. 

“Uh, yes?” Bofur replies, tugging on one of his braids nervously. “Why?”

“The Durin Prince, Thorin, has requested your presence for dinner,” the guard informs him, “now.”

“Now?” Bofur exclaims, looking down at himself, covered in sawdust and grease, probably smelling something terrible. “Surely, I could change.”

The guard raises a hand to silence him. “The prince says this is not necessary. Come with me, please.”

Bofur scrambles to get his apron off and flings it in the direction of his brothers. Bombur looks up from his piece, shaving pieces off to form a horse tail. He nods when Bofur gestures to the guard, his eyes concerned. Bofur brushes it off, signalling the Prince wishes to see him.

He walks alongside the dwarf-guard awkwardly, picking his nails in an attempt to rub the grease out of the nail beds. He feels dirty and unkept, as thinks of the lush clothes the Durin family wore, thread counts high and stitches perfect. They reach the Kingdom’s side entrance, one Bofur has never laid eyes on before, his curiosity flaring, his eyes looking at everything while he can, absorbing the sights around him. He is led through a series of hallways and corridors before stopping abruptly when the guard knocks on one of the chambers.

Upon hearing a response from inside the room, the guard opens the door and ushers him inside the chamber. Bofur looks around warily, feeling out of place as he steps into the room, peering around expensive furniture and sculptures. He notices the broad back of the prince on the balcony, and clears his throat loudly before joining him. He stands next to Thorin, who greets him with a smile. “Isn’t it beautiful,” he gestures at the serene landscape in front of them. The sun, not quite set, sits on top of the hills and mountains that stand tall, waterfalls creating bodies of clear, warm water. It is a warm evening, though a breeze is cool on his skin and Bofur laps up the scenery, a possibility he’ll never lay eyes on it again.

“I requested your company for dinner,” Thorin confirms, “so, shed your overcoat, the room is warm.”

Bofur does what he is told, draping it over an armchair as he follows the prince back into the main room. The dining area, though small and made for Thorin alone it would seem, was decorated and detailed beautifully. Bofur admired the artwork that hung on the walls, and true to his word, the room was pleasantly warm and comfortable. The dining table was adorned with food, and Bofur’s mouth salivated at the sight. Thorin gestures him over and to take his seat, Bofur notices with a smile, is on his left, though he faces the chamber and Thorin faces the window. He sits and waits for Thorin to take his own helpings of food before he does.

Bofur and Thorin engage in conversation, and Bofur learns that Thorin likes to play the harp, and has a pleasant singing voice. He also learns Thorin is a skilled fighter and swordsman and enjoys the simple things; smoking a pipe basking in the sun and reading old literature. He is well educated and speaks Elvish. He learns that Thorin has a younger sister, still only a babe alike them, already pressured to wed. Upon asking Thorin of his own romantic interests, the prince laughs, and states he has no interest in wedlock although it is of importance in his majesty. Bofur quirks an eyebrow but does not question him further. 

He indulges in the prince’s questions also, explaining the intricacies of toy-making with childish excitement. Although a job for him, he enjoys his job immensely, and finds it methodical and calming, the shavings falling away to a carved master piece. He does not lie to the prince, he has already had a rocky upbringing but has great respect for his brothers and refers to them as his life. Thorin nods his head in understanding as he listens, his eyes warm and inviting.

“Why did you invite me here, Thorin?” He asks, and hastily adds when Thorin raises an eyebrow sharply. “I’m glad you did, though!”

Thorin smirks, playing with a ring on his right middle finger, “I believed you to be good company, Bofur. I was not wrong.”

Bofur smiles bashfully, hoping the prince cannot see the blush adorning his cheeks in the now darkened room, light only by several candles scattered on dressers and tables. 

As Bofur readies himself to leave, Thorin walks him to the hall where he arrived. When he bows his head in a respectful and expected goodbye, Thorin catches his chin with a rough hand and forces it to stay upright. Bofur bites his lip, unsure about the prince’s actions and is pleasantly surprised when Thorin kisses him on the cheek in farewell, his lips soft against the stubble on his cheek. When Bofur returns to the safety of his own bed, rid of sleep and peering up to the ceiling, he closes his eyes and heaves a great sigh when he feels himself falling in love.

—

It is only until he walks around the bays surrounding Erebor alongside Thorin several weeks later, does Bofur question if his feelings for the prince are reciprocated. He is dressed nicely today, gone out of his way more so than usual to wear his best clothes to look presentable, as they are in public. When he tells Thorin this, the prince frowns at him but informs he does not care what others think of Bofur’s clothing nor his profession. 

They walk slowly, warmed by heavy overcoats, Thorin’s lined with majesty’s fur, Bofur with a well-sewn wool coat along the inside. The air is cold to their faces, but Bofur still feels himself gleeful at spending time with the prince, who laughs at his childish jokes and smiles at the lame punchlines. Bofur can see the twinkle in Thorin’s eyes as he imitates a maiden, extraordinarily drunk at last night’s festivities, arms flailing about. Thorin chokes out a laugh when Bofur slips on the wet grass, but catches him and steadies him, almost slipping himself. Thorin covers his mouth as he barks in his laughter, poking Bofur in the ribs playfully, forcing him to laugh along.

Their laughter fades, and Bofur finds himself in a comfortable silence. Thorin leads them to a rock formation on the side of the bank, sitting on it and leaving room for Bofur to sit next to him. Bofur watches the ice crack in the lake in front of them and picks up a rock and throws it, forcing the ice to split along the surface and form icicles in the water.

Bofur entertains the prince with stories about his day, explaining the differences in wood and how it effects the piece. He feels his heart swell happily when Thorin curls to his side some, resting his head on Bofur’s shoulder. Thorin hums in agreement when Bofur complains about the price of boar that morning. Feeling particularly daring, he shifts and winds his arm around Thorin’s waist, who just resettles and resumes staring out onto the lake comfortably. He presses a kiss to the crown of Thorin’s head, relishing in the shared body heat.

Bofur knows he could have stayed forever if he could.

—

“Your beard is growing,” Thorin informs him when he sees him next. Bofur runs a hand down his face and tugs on the hair growing slowly on the dip of his chin. Thorin has been occupied by Thranduil, the elf-king for diplomatic reasons for two weeks. The prince draws him into a hug, tight against his body and Bofur sags in his grip, winding his own arms around Thorin’s waist in return. They press their foreheads together, and Thorin releases him and gestures to the dining room. “Come,” the prince commands softly, “let us eat. It has been a tiring ride for me.”

Having dinner with Thorin has become a regular occurrence for him, and he missed Thorin while he was gone. Tonight, at their twenty-seventh dinner, he can see Thorin is tired and is tempted to ask whether he wishes for company or sees him out of pity. Thorin gestures to the dining room again.

They eat and speak of the differences between Elvish and Dwarvish culture, Thorin incredulously informing him they have little meat in their meals, plentiful of salad and fruit. Bofur scoffs, assuming fruit a desert-like delicacy, and are uncommon in a dwarf’s diet. Thorin explains the differences in alcohol, Dwarvish mead is hearty and filling, pleasant to the tongue whereas Elvish wine is rich, and dry, the smell is pungent and left him reeling. They wear little armour, which Bofur finds impractical, and the prince tells him with amused eyes that Elvish men look like women.

“Before I summoned you, I purchased something for you,” Thorin states, standing and walking toward his bedchamber. “Stay here, I shall fetch it for you.”

Bofur waits for the prince’s return, curious, but also apprehensive, and tells Thorin carefully, “You didn’t have to buy me anything, Thorin,” but the prince waves him off with a scoff. “I wanted to, that’s what matters, yes?”

Bofur nodes and gasps when Thorin holds out a piece of jewellery still in its box in front of him. He takes the necklace from Thorin and cradles it in his palms, holding it as if were a fragile glass of sorts. The gem that sits in the setting is a similar colour to that of the Arkenstone, the Durin family jewel. He removes it from the casing and places the box on the table next to his dinner plate. It is not a large pendant, no more than two centimetres width nor length yet it gleams prettily in his calloused palms. The chain is a fine gold, he can feel the necklace oozing with wealth. He watches as Thorin takes it from him, pushing the hair at the back of his neck aside as he winds the chain around his throat and closes the clasp. The jewel sits above his sternum, close to his heart.

“I will show you something,” Thorin says, caressing the pendant on Bofur’s chest wistfully. Bofur turns in his seat so that he faces Thorin directly. The prince reaches down his own tunic and pulls out a matching necklace, the gems identical. Bofur stares at it, hopeful. He hopes this means what he thinks it does and looks up to Thorin’s face with a smile, cheeks reddening. The prince returns his smile, his eyes warm and inviting.

“Were you courting me?” He asks the prince with a cheeky smirk.

“Only if it worked,” Thorin replies carefully, “I figure we have danced around the issue enough.”

Bofur smiles and nods, looking down at the jewel, mind clouded with his happiness. He reaches forward, placing gentle palms on the prince’s knees and catches his lips in a kiss. He has indulged in this act with others before, but not with his heart bared and laid open on a platter, like he was offering Thorin. Thorin smiles against his lips and places a hand on his cheek to bring him forward, to draw him closer.

Blood rushes around his body like wildfire, the nerves under his skin thrumming as he kisses his prince carefully, his tongue tentative in Thorin’s mouth. He pulls away and pants for breath and closes his eyes again when Thorin kisses him, unhurried and sweet, his movements lazy as he brings his arms around Bofur’s neck. He releases Bofur slowly, standing and he looks up at the prince in question, but Thorin grasps his hand in his own and leads him to the sitting area. 

Bofur sits on the plush couch across the fire, breaking out in gooseflesh at the change in temperature. Thorin brings two glasses of mead over with him, offers one to Bofur who accepts it thankfully, and twists his body so Thorin can lay between his legs, his chest pressed against Thorin’s muscular back. The prince sighs in his comfort, resting his head against Bofur’s shoulder, sipping his mead.

“This is nice,” Bofur comments uselessly.

He feels Thorin’s chuckle reverberate through his chest. “It is indeed,” he agrees, finishing his mead and reaching over to place it on the table. “You could have helped it along, some, you are aware.”

“I wasn’t sure, that this was… allowed,” Bofur explains hastily, but Thorin looks up at him, neck bent impressively. Bofur runs his thumb over Thorin’s collarbone.

“I care not if it weren’t,” Thorin says, “my father would be displeased I am taken by same-gender, but not overly so. I have a sister.”

Bofur remains silent.

Thorin sighs, exasperated. “Who can bear heirs to the Durin line, Bofur.”

Bofur’s eyes go wide in his realisation. “Oh!” He responds dumbly, his smile embarrassed. He presses his thighs tightly alongside Thorin’s hips, holding him close. He tilts his head awkwardly, pulling Thorin’s head back to it’s original position and kisses him deeply, fevered. He runs his tongue along Thorin’s bottom lip easily, dipping inside and drawing the moan from Thorin’s throat into the kiss. He pulls away and presses a kiss to Thorin’s cheek, his forehead and his lips before resting his head back against the high armrest.

When Thorin’s breathing evens out into the lumbers of sleep, Bofur smiles to himself, holding Thorin tight in his arms, the heat of the room a blanket as his own eyes flicker shut.

\- fin


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the years, over the changes in their lives, Thorin and Bofur will always return to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

—

Bofur: 62 years

Thorin: 67 years

—

Thorin knew he could only avoid the ‘talk’ for so long. His father addressed him when he saw him last, that today would be the opportune time to speak of marriage. It had been twenty-odd years since his kin last mentioned the possibility of taking a woman to wedlock, and though he hoped to never speak of it, his father in particular, persistent as he believed sustaining the Durin line to be of utmost importance.

He dresses quickly, in the hopes of avoiding his father and leaves his chambers, giving the guards a small nod in farewell. Thorin has several things to attend to today, at his father’s wishes. Visiting the blacksmith was a welcome sight, he smiles upon reaching it, knowing that Dwalin the apprentice should be working. The work that leaves this blacksmith is extraordinarily popular, the detail in the settings is very pleasing to the eye and visitors and customers travel far paths to come here.

“Thorin!” Dwalin bellows, spotting him easily in his fur coat and runs out of the smithy and over to him. He grabs Thorin and draws him into a friendly one-armed hug, and gives him a heavy pat on the back. Thorin laughs at his antics and follows him back inside the shop.

“Why ye here?” Dwalin asks curiously. Thorin notices Dwalin’s brother, Balin approach and dips his head in greeting. Thorin smiles at the respectful bow, but turns to Dwalin and informs him, “My father has a piece here. I need to retrieve it for him.”

Balin claps his hands together, proudly. “There it is, majesty,” he says, handing the sword over in it’s leather scabbard. Thorin runs his hands over the casing, and pulls the sword out of the sheath. The sword gleams proudly in the light, the Dwarven symbols and letters carved impossibly straight and neat along its blade.

“Thank you,” he replies hooking into onto his hip, tucking the blade under his coat. He reaches to his pockets for money, but Balin stops him. “No charge at all, majesty. Anything for the king.”

Thorin scoffs, but does not attempt to hand over any change. Balin smiles at him and bows again, before turning on his heel and returning to his own work before his arrival. He says goodbye to Dwalin, who gives him an enthusiastic hug goodbye almost winding him. Before he leaves, he places the coin in their tip jar, sitting on the top of their bookings counter.

—

Upon reaching the marketplace that morning, he notices that is a busy Wednesday morning. He sighs when vendors and villagers notice his presence, but smiles as they bow and declines politely when they offer him food. Thorin is stopped by an elderly dwarf on the way to Bofur’s tent, and she compliments his princely crown, flattering his looks with gusto. He smiles down at her but frowns slightly when she becomes handsy and wrestles his arm out of her grip.

“I was beginning to think you ditched me or somethin’!” Bofur calls out to him as he approaches the tent. 

Thorin scowls at him. “Amongst marriage proposals and begs to pose for portraits, you should be glad I’m here.” Thorin watches as Bofur signals to his brother he is getting them lunch before it runs out. Bofur’s brother and cousin notice him and come out from the back room of the shop.

“Hello, Prince,” Bombur greets, “how are you?”

“I’m very well, Bombur. Yourself? Hello, Bifur,” Thorin replies, cringing at the poor attempt at singing making its way over from the camp. He watches as Bofur collects food for his brothers, laughing at a lass who attempts to dance with him.

“I do not know,” he responds when Bifur asks why his father and grandfather do not visit the marketplace as often as he does. “They have no real reason to come here, do they?” He asks with a sad smile. “They deal with more diplomatic matters that I care not for.”

Bofur returns, a bowl in each hand, precariously resting the bread on the top of the bowls. He throws his apron at Bifur’s head who scowls at him and gives him a rude gesture in Inglishmek.

Bofur, Thorin notices somewhat suspiciously, is very energetic today, bouncing up and down and around him as he talks. He is enthusiastic, where as Thorin is not, worried his father will intrude and bring up the topic of marriage with Bofur present. He smiles when Bofur chatters excitedly, as he always does, and laughs when Bofur tells an otherwise lame story with enraptured gusto.

The guards open the main gate for them, and Bofur looks around in childish-wonder, his eyes bright with excitement. Thorin can’t help but smile at his lover, who notices him looking with a raised eyebrow. They reach the front steps and step through into the main halls of Erebor as the doors are opened for them. 

Thorin hastily pushes Bofur in the direction of his chambers, almost tripping them both in his haste to leave the hall upon his hearing his father’s voice. Bofur’s face drops when he hears Thrain’s booming voice through the halls too, the pair attempting to reach the staircases in time.

“Thorin!” Thrain bellows and the prince stops cold and remains still. He draws in a deep breath and turns with a shit-eating grin, “Father! You have returned!” Thorin calls down to Thrain, who approaches him with arms spread. This forces Thorin to walk down the stairs and to his father’s level at the bottom, leaving Bofur stranded on the staircase.

“Who is your friend?” Thrain asks, frowning, drawing back from their hug, looking over his shoulder and at Bofur in question.

“Bofur,” Thorin states, as though obvious. He attempts nonchalance, and Thrain looks him up and down quizzically. Bofur knows he should possibly be offended that Thorin does not inform his father they are lovers, but looking at Thrain in person for the first time, does not blame him for being intimidated.

Thrain remains silent, and Thorin shuffles awkwardly, hands on his hips for something to do before he remembers, “Oh, father, I collected this for you at the blacksmith in time for your return.” He unclasps the sword from his belt hands the sword over to his father who hums happily. 

“Thank you, Thorin,” he says patting his son’s cheek lovingly before turning and walking away. Thorin seizes the opportunity and sprints up the stairs with Bofur in tow as quick as he can.

—

“Your father is very intimidating,” Bofur observes, smoking from his pipe and sipping Thorin’s mead. They are resting comfortably on the balcony connected to Thorin’s chambers, the prince’s head resting on his shoulder as he smokes his own pipe, gazing over the scenery before them. He notices a dwarf-maid has placed a potted plant on the edge of the balcony.

“Intimidating, yes. Cruel, no. He has his moments of kindness and moments of anger, like we all do.” Thorin replies, “my mother was able to tame him some, when she was alive.”

Bofur looks to the side at Thorin who smiles fondly at the memory of his mother. Bofur feels a twinge of understanding in his chest, knowing the pain and grief of losing a parent, having lost both. He rubs down Thorin’s arm where he has looped it around his shoulder. The prince shuffles around, and comes to rest his head in Bofur’s lap, peering up at him, but if he wished, he could see the sights through the balcony railing. 

“Ye know, we’ve been together a while now,” Bofur says as he carts his fingers through Thorin’s hair, the pads of his fingers pressing gently against his scalp, enough pressure to massage him. He knows doing this forces Thorin into a doze, and rattles his fingers against Thorin’s forehead to gain his attention.

“Hmm, yes,” Thorin agrees. “Bit over twenty years, now.”

Bofur bends down awkwardly and kisses Thorin on his mouth, steadying the prince’s head in his hand. He pulls away, pressing chaste kisses to his lips, smirking when Thorin attempts to deepen them. He allows his prince to kiss him deeply, but forces Thorin’s head back against his lap when he feels the heat in his blood rise in arousal.

Thorin smirks when Bofur looks down at his lap and at him, cheeks reddened by their activity. He re-braids Thorin’s hair neatly, removing and reattaching the princely clasps, combing through the long black hair. He kisses Thorin’s forehead tenderly, both laughing about their earlier antics, as though dwarflings afraid of reprimand. The prince chuckles at how he declared Bofur’s name, as though Thrain had met him before.

When Thorin sings to him, he feels the comfort of his voice seep into him, calming him like the touches he would give if intimate. He feigns surprise when Thorin sits in his lap, and rubs the prince’s back when Thorin rests his head on his shoulder again, crouching. Looking at Thorin, Bofur would not assume he was a dwarf who enjoyed closeness of others, the intimacy of winding their bodies together completely dressed, but Thorin adores and cherishes it, though he would never admit it. He knows that Thorin enjoys their sexual activity, but finds the prince’s eyes will always doze happily when Bofur holds him just right, with correct amount of arm around his waist. 

Thorin enjoys touching and holding things that he owns or in the process of ownership. Although not entirely sure, Bofur sees a similar trait Thorin applies with people around them. He does not play with others, does not indulge in other’s needs nor their desires, because he has Bofur at his side. He does not necessarily own Bofur in those terms, but has him for himself at that itself is enough for Thorin. Bofur notices the smallest of habits that his prince has, quirky they might be, and he likes them. He will only fiddle with ornaments or jewellery if he is going to purchase it, he will only reach for food if he is going to eat it, which is an uncommon trait amongst dwarves. 

The prince has is own favoured quirks of Bofur’s, including the history about his hat, although no story-teller to children, he tells Thorin how he had to travel hundreds of miles because of the genuine leather. Bofur is a determined lad, so he’s been told, and Thorin reminds him of this often, smiling. He is free with his emotions around Thorin, has no difficulty telling the prince that he loves him and Thorin always kisses him, and returns his words. 

He feels safe around Thorin, and somehow knows the other does around him, too.

—

“You spend many hours of your time with him,” Thrain begins conversationally at dinner. The platters are full of delicious food, plentiful in flavour and amount. Thrain’s eyes do not waver from his son’s face as Thorin shifts in his seat.

“I do,” he replies calmly. “He is important to me.”

Thrain rests his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced. They are alone, now Thorin realises his father wishes to talk to him privately and personally. He is nervous, and remembers that his father has been somewhat hounding him. He is well aware that Thrain, once again has not had the time to speak to him about marriage. He loves Bofur, deeply, there is no seed of doubt in his mind that he will inform his father, today. He is confident.

“How important, Thorin?” His father asks, his voice remaining pleasant. 

Thorin looks up, and swallows his half-chewed portion painfully. “The legacy of the Durin line lay upon Dis,” he replies, licking his lip nervously as his father raises his eyebrows. The heir tilts his head in question, his strong eyebrows in a frown.

“Is that so?” Thrain asks his voice gruff. “Why did you not tell me this, years ago?”

Thorin shrugs, eating some potato, pointedly not returning his father’s gaze. “Love is a timely course,” he says, reaching over and pouring himself some ale. He plays with the edge of the gauntlet for something to do as he is evaluated by his father’s scrutinising eyes. His father nods, small, and continues to eat in silence. Thorin sighs inwardly with relief, and forces conversation upon his father regarding his trip to unusual activity near the pass of Isenguard. 

Tired, Thrain allows him dismissal, but stops him before he leaves the dining hall. “Shall you be taken by lad or lass, Thorin, love may be a timely event, but also a long and tiring one. Your heart should remain guarded until you unite in wedlock.”

Thorin’s eyes bulge at his father’s words, unexpected. “You would allow such marriage?” He asks, his voice tainted with hope.

Thrain blinks slowly but nods. “Dis must produce heirs, Thorin. But yes, I would. I want you to be happy. You are my child, whom I love.” Thorin chokes in his throat and rushes to his father, hugging him in gratitude. An act they do not participate in often, here and there, he is comforted by the hug; acceptance in it’s purest form, his father tainted by the loss of his beloved and bloodied by war. Yet still, Thrain finds comfort and love in his own heart for his son. Thorin presses their foreheads together quickly and replies, “I love you too, father. Thank you.”

—

Bofur knows Thorin is in a particularly good mood the morning they decide to walk around the valleys, under the mountain though close to Erebor. Thorin’s eyes are wild with an emotion Bofur has never before seen, his movements uncontrolled and messy as he moves around Bofur. The prince is giddy, happily chewing a morsel of food and offers it to him. Bofur takes it from him and watches and Thorin buries his hands in his fur coat.

“What’s got ya so happy today, love?” He asks the prince around the food, swallowing and smiling, the other’s happiness is infectious.

“I spoke to my father. About marriage,” Thorin begins teasingly, casually. “I told him about us.”

Bofur, unsure, remains silent though he is hopeful that Thorin has not been exiled from his own kingdom. He knows nothing of same-gender relations in the Durin royal line, and does not want Thorin to be subject to ridicule or mockery. Although it may be a common occurrence in his everyday life to see same-gender couples together due to limited lasses, he assumes that the royal family have no such shortage, and Thorin may not use the same excuse.

“He allows it,” Thorin states, smiling, clutching at his necklace, same to that of Bofur’s, tightly in his hand. “He accepts it.”

“He what? Fuck, that’s great!” Bofur cries, launching himself at the prince and hoisting him up so that Thorin’s legs wind around his waist. Thorin laughs openly, happily, and Bofur’s heart swells at the noise, though he has heard it before. The prince tugs on his braids hurriedly as he dips his head for a kiss messily, Bofur smiling broadly, though attempting to kiss him back.

He twirls them around along the bank, but stays on the grass, not wishing to have an unexpected dip in the cold water. He lowers Thorin onto the grass, and hovers over him for a while, kissing him softly and enjoying his closeness. He feels Thorin’s hand reaching down his tunic, and almost protests at the chill of his fingers against his warm skin, but stops when he notices the prince’s hold on his necklace. Thorin holds it close to Bofur’s chest, atop his heart, a charming smile dances across his lips.

“We should go back to my chamber to celebrate,” Thorin suggests, nonchalant.

“Aye,” Bofur attempts the same tone, and can’t help but waggle his eyebrows at the prince. “We should.”

—

Bofur feels the exhilaration pumping through his blood as he chases Thorin through the mighty halls of Erebor and to his bedchambers. He feels safe with Thorin’s hand wrapped tightly around his own, feels more comfortable than he has ever, it being an emotion he has not felt for a very long time, safe. Guards jump out of their way as they run dangerously around the halls and down corridors.

Bofur laughs openly when Thorin fumbles with his key, the door finally giving way with a forceful tug. Thorin walks through his chambers, flinging the furred overcoat over the arm chair dismissively, uncaring as his undercoats fall to the floor. As he reaches the bedroom, Thorin has managed to strip to his underclothes easily, and gestures to the bedroom with an arm when Bofur does not move.

Bofur quickly undresses, cursing the clasps and zips but manages to strip to his under-shorts without tripping and follows the prince to the bedroom.

Once naked, the sex is passionate, he devotes more of his time to kissing Thorin than rushing through to climax. He feels needy, touching Thorin as much as he can, dipping his hands over the planes of Thorin’s body, kissing the muscles and tendons that line his body. He flicks his tongue over the scars that mark his chest, and moves up and sucks Thorin’s pulse roughly, chuckling deep in his throat when Thorin groans and rolls his hips. 

Thorin moans when he caresses his thighs with soft kisses, his palms massaging the muscle as he works. He digs a palm into his own arousal to quell it in an attempt to focus more on his lover. Thorin’s breath hitches when Bofur suckles the tip of his cock, fisting his hands in the sheets on either side of him, knuckles turning white under the strain.

With methodical movements, he drags his mouth up and down the shaft, humming with excitement when Thorin begins to pant and thrust upward, though he presses his palms over the prince’s hipbones carefully so he doesn’t choke him. Because of their experience with one another, the amount of times they have done this, he does not need to ask permission, knowing that Thorin is more than ready.

Thorin reaches over easily and reaches for the lubricant, wetting a large hand and drawing Bofur up his body by his torso. He reaches between them eagerly, liberally spreading the oil over Bofur’s cock. Bofur’s movements stagger a little, though he dips his fingers into the oil quickly, spreading some around Thorin’s entrance. He need not bother to fully prepare Thorin, having done this too often, he pushes his fingers against the skin until it gives.

He does not notice the glint in the prince’s eye until he is under Thorin, the other’s thighs tight around his hips, restricting his movements. Thorin kisses him then, rubbing his tongue alongside his own. Bofur moans into his mouth and bites Thorin’s lip as he pulls away. Thorin eases himself on Bofur’s length, mouth falling slack with the burn of stretching, but remains still for several moments before he raises and lowered himself.

This position is one that Bofur never lasts long. Thorin rocks against him, groaning as he is pleasured, and Bofur can feel his own climax coiling near his stomach. The tightness is almost impossibly so, the heat of Thorin’s body is a pleasure like no other. He pinches Thorin’s nipple cheekily, before running a hand up his shoulder and behind his head for a kiss.

Thorin hunches forward as he rides Bofur, his thighs straining with the effort to thrust as he feels his orgasm approach. His hand is clenched around Bofur’s bicep, the other pressing his pendant against Bofur’s chest, above his heart almost painfully. Bofur snaps his hips up, sharply, thumbs digging into Thorin’s hips harshly, sure to leave bruises. Bofur’s hips stutter with the effort and slams his head back into the pillow as his orgasm tears through him, hands pinning Thorin down to his lap.

Thorin grunts when he feels Bofur climax, kissing him quickly and falling forward when Bofur jerks him to finish. He forces all his weight on his arms next to Bofur’s head and he comes, messy, hitting Bofur’s chest and the sheets next to him. He pulls out of Thorin carefully, awarded with a grunt and forces the prince to lay aside him, pushing his uncoordinated limbs together and curls up behind him. They fit together like two spoons, comfortable.

Bofur still pants, though small, and kisses Thorin’s ear. 

“We should bathe,” he comments, and runs a hand through Thorin’s sweaty hair.

“We should,” Thorin agrees, his voice already clouded by sleep. Bofur looks into Thorin’s face with a smile, kisses his cheek quickly and reaches to the end of the bed for the blankets, covering himself and Thorin. He resumes holding Thorin until he feels the other fall into the lumbers, presses another kiss to the back of his neck. Thorin grabs his hand that hangs over his waist close to his chest and kisses Bofur’s knuckles.

“Sleep,” Thorin commands, and Bofur does.

\- fin


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the years, over the changes in their lives, Thorin and Bofur will always return to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

Bofur: 82 years

Thorin: 87 years

—

“Oh come on, Bofur,” Bombur scoffs, “no need to tell us tales!”

“I’m telling’ ya the truth!” Bofur exclaims, affronted. “He asked me to marry him, ask him if ya want!”

Bombur grumbles at him, still disbelieving. His brother gives him a strange look before retiring to his room for sleep. Bifur raises an eyebrow at him sharply. 

“Are you going to say yes?” Bifur asks, standing and clearing the table. He peers over his shoulder at his cousin, smirking. Bofur sits straight in his chair. “Of course! I already told him I would,” he says, grinning broadly. “I love him dearly.”

“I know you do,” Bifur agrees, tipping water into the sink and beginning to wash the dishes. “I’m still surprised the King would allow it, though.”

Bofur raises his eyebrows. “Because I am a male?” 

Bifur shakes his head and shrugs. “We aren’t even distant relatives of the Durin line, Bofur,” he states, “their family history is… pre-selected.” Bofur shrugs his shoulders and moves to assist his cousin. It has made him wonder, surely. Yhorin is not a disobedient lad, and surely does what he is asked by his father. Bofur can’t help the smile making its way to his face as he thinks that, just maybe, Thorin is changing the rules for him alone.

—

Bofur stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom two weeks later, dressed head-to-toe in formal attire supplied to him by the royal family. He leaves his hat off, knowing he looks more presentable without, and braids his hair the neatest he has ever done. The deep green of his shirt compliments him nicely, and he smiles at his reflection.

Today, he will marry Thorin.

His heart thuds loudly in his chest at the thought. Today, Thorin will be his husband, and he will spend the rest of his life with him. Bofur scoffs, feeling like a young lass swooning, but thinks no more of it as he puts on the boots provided. He feels handsome, and looks handsome, if he may say so himself.

Bofur, with Bifur and Bombur, are escorted to the Kingdom by several guards. They both look very nice, wearing their best clothes, hair neat and their beards tidy. Bombur claps him on the back with a broad smile, Bifur giving him a hug. He is led aside by a maid of the Durin family and ushered into a dressing room. She gives him a coat to wear, that has the Durin family crest etched onto the back. It is a nice fit, made of genuine leather. 

He paces nervously, unable to help himself, feeling the nerves grow at the pit of his stomach. When ready, he is shown the path down a corridor he is required to walk down, and there he shall meet Thorin and the party. Bofur takes a deep breath and begins his way down the hallway.

—

Although being a formal wedding, marrying Thorin was over as soon as it started, and Bofur was relieved, knowing the royal family ordinarily indulges their guests for hours. He senses Thorin feels the same, as they are allowed to leave and enjoy the remainder of the evening together. Thrain offers him a smile and a curt welcome to the family, eyes trained to be suspicious, but dismisses them, ordering a maid to supply supper to Thorin’s chamber.

They eat in relative silence, but Bofur cannot peel the smile off his face. Thorin reminds him that Bofur will have no real duties as the prince’s husband, and is not required to attend diplomatic meetings. Bofur mocks disappointment when Thorin informs him he wears no crown.

Thorin smiles, rubs a thumb over his own crown upon his head and leans over and kisses Bofur’s cheek lightly. He returns to his food, listening to Bofur’s excited chatter with a smirk. The maid makes her presence known by knocking on the door, walking inside when Thorin grunts in response. She has placed Bofur’s belongings in the bedchamber, and his other times in the main sitting area. Bofur gives her a happy thank you, and smiles. She smiles back, bows and leaves the couple alone.

Although most newly-married couples would indulge in passionate and hours long bouts of sex, Bofur and Thorin don’t, more content with spending time with each other. Bofur walks about the chamber, unpacking his clothing, talking happily while Thorin lays on the bed, listening. Thorin laughs at the random articles of clothing that Bofur owns, making fun of him in good heart. Thorin’s bedchamber has changed to accompany a larger bed for them, some furniture has been taken out and placed in other parts of the housing.

Bofur pretends to be annoyed when he is informed that he must now wear a shirt of chain mail, and Thorin scoffs at the name, telling him it is called Mithril, and is one of the most sought after articles of clothing in the world. Bofur nods, feigning interest, but yelps loudly when Thorin tackles him, pinning him to the bed, pushing his ungainly limbs in place as he hovers over Bofur.

Thorin’s eyes soften when he peers down at Bofur, and bends to kiss him forcefully, pressing chaste kisses on his cheeks and eyelids. Bofur rests his hands on Thorin’s thighs, bracketed around him nicely, enjoying the warmth of his husband.

His husband.

The title rings in his ears. “My husband,” he whispers to Thorin’s lips, “my love.”

Thorin smiles against his mouth. “Aye,” the prince agrees, shifting so that his head rest against Bofur’s chest, cheek pressed over his heart. “My husband.”

—

The fall of Erebor devastated Thorin, he curls around Bofur tightly as he suffers the loss of his homeland, his kingdom, but mostly his father and grandfather. Bofur supports him as best as he can, offering words of comfort and whispers soothing words to his husband’s ear. He understands he does not have any words that can lessen the blow of Thorin’s grief, yet Thorin thanks him and shifts to lay on top of him, humming softly when he winds his arms around Thorin.

Bofur knows these events will change who his husband is. He is no fool. He knows his love for Thorin will prevail through the hard times, but he finds his heart breaking at the emptiness in Thorin’s eyes, the lost look upon his face when anyone mentions Thrain or Thror. 

The Blue Mountains is no Erebor, however the Dwarvish people, charismatic when they please to be, make friends easily with the Men who have a settlement near it’s base. Thorin is no diplomat, having no time to experience such matters, relies on Balin to speak on his behalf, and Bofur does not blame him. Thorin may be heir to the throne, a prince, but if death fell upon Thror, Thrain was there to take his stead, and become the King to the people.

Thorin was alone, without his family expect Dis, for the first time in his life. Thorin retreats to Bofur more often than not, comforted easily by Bofur’s presence. He speaks softly of his pain, but does not dwell over the ache in his heart. He cries in his sleep, horrid images of Thror’s beheaded body flash through his dreams that turns them to nightmares. He clings to Bofur painfully, who brings him to consciousness slowly, as not to alarm him. He always thanks Bofur, always assures him he will be fine, but Bofur knows; such grief is not something that is easily mended, years upon years will ease the sorrow, never to be fully healed.

He smiles at Thorin, who curls around him again, and uses a hand to fan cool air over Thorin’s sweaty back. He bites his lip worriedly when Thorin cries openly, wetting his stomach where Thorin rests his head. He can do no more than cradle Thorin in his arms and whisper words of love to his ears. His sobs ease as he slips back to sleep, arms tight around Bofur’s midsection.

—

For the first time in over thirty years, they need to separate. Thorin must travel west, to speak diplomatic means with other Dwarves, and Bofur offers to watch over the city in the Blue Mountains. Thorin remains hesitant to leave his husband behind, but he reassures Thorin that Balin will need assistance with the, now, King absent. Thorin gives him a strange look, telling him to command the people and armies in his stead.

Bofur shakes his head, “I do not know that type of stuff, yet, love. Most don’t even know we are married. They will be informed later, at a better time. We need to make the Blue Mountains safe first.” He offers a smile to his husband who frowns at him, disapproval heavy on his lips and Bofur silences his words with a kiss.

“This is your rightful title, alongside mine,” Thorin states, wrapping an arm around Bofur’s midsection. “Yeah, it is,” Bofur agrees, but shrugs, “Balin knows what to do. Teach me when ya get back, love.” He stands back to allow Thorin room to mount the pony, patting the pony’s mane. Thorin looks down at him hesitantly, unsure, but Bofur gives him a smile and slaps the pony’s rear, forcing her into action. Thorin shakes his head but rides off, his party behind him.

Bofur watches him go for some time, wary, though straightens and heads back to the mountain, where no doubt Balin awaits him and his orders. He tells Balin that the daily duties of the Dwarves should not be interrupted, and uproar should begin if they are made aware their King as left them so early after settlement. Bofur quickly realises now, the dwarves are comforted by royalty. Like most races, where there is a King, there is safety. If the king is absent, the people grow worried of their own safety.

Bofur cannot afford that, not with Thorin gone. Balin suggests should anyone request Thorin’s presence, he has fallen ill with fever, worry heavy on his shoulders, making him tired and faint. He hopes that Dain, Thorin’s cousin, will assist them in their time of need. 

—

Bofur: 191 years

Thorin: 195 years

—

Thorin is now a pensive, suspicious and broody individual. Though, Bofur gives him fair leeway, this has happened over one hundred years. Their life has not been an easy one. Others shy away in his presence, fearful of his temper and harsh words, afraid of his authority and command. Thorin, more trained in combat and warfare than he ever was, rarely sleeps, revenge and hostility a constant driving force driving him forward. Several dwarves who are friends to he and Thorin worry their marriage should fail, but Bofur has no worries.

He may be a strong-willed, stubborn, and sometimes a downright rude dwarf, Thorin shows none of these traits while he is alone with Bofur, nor when he is with Bofur in the public eye. They still dine together, still love each other and still lay with each other. Bofur still hides in his husband’s shadow, despite Thorin’s attempts to draw him out. He knows he could wear his title with pride and strut about like a fool, but Thorin understands that is not who he is, and supports his decisions, even when Bofur tells him he still wishes to work in the markets with his brother and cousin.

He brings his creations home, and over the years learns that Thorin likes lions. He carves a massive lioness out of mahogany wood, painted and dried an immaculate brown, and lays a sheet of glass over the top and makes it a book table. Thorin smiles at him broadly, hugging him closely and rocks them together gently as they embrace. Bofur kisses him and makes love to him.

Bofur does, however, attend diplomatic meetings with Balin in tow. Thorin appreciates his presence, as he remembers factors of conversations with allies that Thorin himself overlooks. Still, Bofur grins to himself, he has no idea what they are talking about half the time. ‘Moving allies to this camp,’ and ‘sending missionaries to the west,’ or ‘scouting parties to the north.’ Whenever Thorin’s tone changes its pitch, annoyed, he raises a sharp eyebrow in his husband’s direction, who will always clear his throat and apologise, feigning stress.

—

Separation from Thorin is never easy for him. He tugs at the necklace that hangs around his neck tightly, a comfort to him at his husband’s absence. Bofur has been without Thorin for six months now, and everyday has become more difficult. It eats away at him, the need for him, settling deep in his chest, forever lingering. He suggested to Thorin they need make friends, among Men and other dwarves that scattered in their haste to leave Erebor in its destruction. 

He grows weary, always tired, as his thoughts are always working, always thinking, always hoping that Thorin is safe and well. He knows no harm has fallen upon his husband, as a scouting party would come looking for him and he must return to the Blue Mountains. However, dead is not the same as injured or weak.

Over the years, Bofur has learned a reasonable amount of charm, and has done what the King has asked of him. Men laugh at he and the party’s heights, but are amazed at their smithing skills and their ability to use Inglishmek. He also teaches them the quickest way to start a campfire, and the easiest way to scout borders before settling. They thank Bofur and his party, and dip their heads in allied diplomacy before moving on.

The dwarves on the other hand, were more difficult to find. They were in hiding, assuming the Durin family line destroyed and have fled to the darkest parts of the world. No King means no home to these dwarves. Upon finding them, which took Bofur and his company of five others, seven whole days. He recognises a few of them, and Bofur explains that Thorin is alive and have created a city within the shadow of the Blue Mountains.

Bofur and his party are offered food, which they accept gratefully and place some food in their dwindling supply. The leader of this settlement is a relatively young dwarf, one hundred and nine years is named Marin. His eyes brighten at Bofur’s news of Thorin’s well-being and eagerly begins planning their way to the Blue Mountains. They are interrupted by a dwarf wearing scouting uniform, the Durin crest on the breast of his tunic.

Bofur’s heart stops in his chest. A scouting party has come for him. Thorin must be dead.

“Master Bofur,” the dwarf addresses him, and Bofur shuts his eyes, awaiting the incoming news, “King Thorin sends word.” Bofur’s head spins in relief, exhaling heavily and bracing his elbows on the table. “Aye,” he responds, “what is it?”

“You are to return to the Blue Mountains at once. Diplomatic duties aside,” the dwarf shrugs when Bofur raises an eyebrow. “I honestly think he drank too much ale, Master Bofur, he said something about a wizard.”

Bofur dips his head in realisation. Thorin has met with Gandalf the Grey, a wizard he knew as a young lad. The quest to reclaim Erebor is to begin. He informs the scouting party they will need to find his own kin, Bifur and Bombur, and inform them they are to ride to the heart of the Blue Mountains and leave the smaller mining city on the outskirts. The dwarf bows and leaves. Bofur thanks Marin for his hospitality, Marin informs him he will set out for the Mountains in a few days.

—

They unite in the public eye, so Bofur remains cautious of his affections. He is pleasantly surprised when he has arms full of the king, Thorin’s legs latched around his waist, arms holding him tightly. Thorin kisses him bruisingly, his lips unrelenting and he moves his hands to cup Bofur’s face. Bofur holds him tightly, supporting the weight. He allows Thorin to sag in his grip, helping him with his footing. Thorin wraps his arms around Bofur in tight hug, face buried in his neck.

Bofur looks over Thorin’s shoulder and barks out a laugh at the bewildered expression on his young nephews faces. Fili laughs at his uncle’s behaviour where Kili’s facial expression shifts from shocked to confused and back and forth.

“It is time, Bofur. To take back what was stolen from us,” Thorin mumbles against his collarbone. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, love,” he replies, rubbing Thorin’s back with his left hand. “We have much to discuss, and I am hungry.”

\- fin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

Although a dream for Thorin, Bofur is somewhat hesitant to persue the lost Dwarvish home of Erebor. There is a high risk of danger, considering there is a dragon resting on their gold, Orcs and other creatures who just want to kill anything or anyone. But Bofur knows deep down, he is just afraid. Not for his own safety, for the safety of his husband. Thorin is a brash, rude and moody dwarf when he wishes to be. Bofur knows he nor Thorin may walk away from this experience alive, let alone without scars to remind them of their struggles.

Nevertheless, they make camp and get much needed rest, tiredness and fatigue heavy in their limbs. With a replenishment of food, their dinner is far better in taste then previous nights, and enough that each dwarf and Bilbo can help themselves to several servings. Bofur is aware that several of his companions have drank a substantial amount of ale and mead, he can hear their drunken singing and chatting from where he sits with Bilbo, Dori and Oin. Ori interrupts the little conversation they have by telling him Dwalin requests his presence near the campfire.

Bofur raises an eyebrow, but obliges.

He lets out a chuckle when he peers down at Thorin’s face, laying uncoordinated and messy next to Balin. Bofur knows that Thorin cannot handle large amounts of alcohol, having rarely indulged as a prince, as not to spoil his princely image of well behaved royalty. Although a strange sight for most members of the company, Thorin is at ease, almost carefree in their presence, chatting happily and smiling.

“Thorin,” he greets, and his husband looks up at him with wide eyes and a sheepish smile. Gesturing for Bofur to sit next to him, Bofur does, laughing as Thorin lays over his lap, wrapping his arms awkwardly around his midsection. He notices the strange look Bilbo shoots their way as he settles down with his pipe several yards away from them. He attempts to explain the King’s behaviour when he is cut off by Thorin caressing his chin with tentative fingers. Bofur can smell the mead in his breath when he asks, “do you remember my father?”

Bofur raises an eyebrow at the intelligent question. The company has fallen silent, unsure of the future of this conversation, though Bofur is sure Thorin just wishes to reminisce. Bofur smiles down at Thorin, “Aye, he was an interestin’ dwarf to say the least.”

Bilbo lights his pipe, watching them with piqued interest. “Interesting how?” He asks, fiddling with the pipe, hesitant to ask questions, even though Thorin is drunk, afraid the King will snap at him and tell him to mind his own business.

“He swore a lot,” Dwalin added, shaking his head, chuckling when Thorin lets out a laugh.

“Fuck this and fuck that,” Thorin states, and Bofur chuckles at the surprised expression on the Bilbo and Ori’s faces, not having heard Thorin sworn before. “Always bloody swearing at something or other. Even at guests. No wonder we have such a bad reputation.”

The eldest members of the company laugh heartily. Bofur holds Thorin’s head steady in his palm, feigning annoyance when Thorin reaches up to play with his earring. He carts his fingers through the dark hair easily, untying his braids and re-plaiting them quickly and neatly. The clasps, frigid from lack of cleaning almost snap in Bofur’s grip, fumbling to attach them before Thorin notices. Thorin moves his head so it lays in the dip of Bofur’s elbow, sighing contently. Thorin’s eyes shut slightly, so Bofur inhales some pipe weed and bends, blowing the smoke close to Thorin’s mouth, who leans upward and inhales. 

Thorin exhales through his nose slowly, the wasps of smoke wafts around them.

“Remember that time Thranduil called me mela amin?” Thorin asks, looking over to Balin who bods and smiles. Bofur purses his lips and grunts in annoyance. Thorin chuckles. “I said dak shaloud back, not really knowing what to say,” Thorin continues, tracing a finger over Bofur’s pulse point. The king heaves an exaggerated sigh when Bilbo asks what the foreign statements mean. He explains the former is Elvish and the latter is Dwarvish, both meaning ‘my love.’ 

“Anyway,” Thorin says, voice slurring, “my grandfather says to me, entirely serious -mind you, ‘Thorin, did you not just get married to Bofur’? And I said, Uh, thirteen years ago, now, grandfather.” The group laugh, many who knew Thror knew he often forgot some important details, or he remembered them weeks and months later. Dwalin and Bofur laugh the hardest, his movements unsettle Thorin who wriggles in annoyance.

“So, my father comes up to me later that evening and says, ‘Why in the fuck are you saying this my love, my love bullshit to a fucking elf?’” Bofur gives Thorin a stern expression, though his eyes wrinkle at the corners with an oncoming smile. Thorin reaches up and pats his cheek, almost missing his face in his first attempt. 

“What did you tell him?” Oin asks gruffly.

Thorin pauses, as if remembering he was mid-conversation. “Oh, something along the lines of, ‘He said it first, he sprung it on me and I didn’t know what to say.’” Bofur shakes his head at his husband’s antics, laughing when Ori giggles at Thorin’s story. Bofur sobers when he notices the only member of the company not laughing is Bilbo, face contorted into a deep frown, confused.

“What’s the matter, laddie?” Bofur asks, concerned.

“You two are married?” the Hobbit asks in reply, pointing small fingers at he and Thorin, flashing a smile that Bofur knows is skeptical.

Thorin rolls his head lazily to look at Bilbo. “yes, Halfling. Only for more than one hundred years!”

Bilbo lets out a shrill laugh, playful and disbelieving. He keeps laughing, grabbing his midsection as he does, before his laughter fades to chuckles.

“You and Thorin?” The hobbit asks, wiping a tear from under his eye, “Married?”

Bofur smiles and nods. “Yeah, lad. That’s what we said.” He pulls his hat off and rests it on Thorin’s chest, thanking Bombur when his brother gives him another bowl of food, still hot and hearty.

Bilbo’s eyes fall on Thorin’s face, still nestled in his arm, snoring softly. Bofur shakes his husband awake slowly not to startle him and offers him some of the stew. Thorin shakes his head no, but Bofur persists, and the king eats a few more mouthfuls before dozing again. He peers down at his husband fondly, attempting to eat his second serving with one arm out of action.

“Go get yourself some more grub, there’s a lad,” Bofur says, and Bilbo hastily grabs more dinner before it becomes another dwarf’s fourths for the day. Bofur takes a potion of bread from Bilbo with a curt nod, who stares at him with disbelieving eyes, looking down at Bofur’s hands. Bofur, confused, asks, “Why are ya looking at my hands for, lad?”

Bilbo blushes softly, the tips of his ears pink. “Oh, for hobbits, when married, we wear a ring on this finger,” he gestures to Bofur’s ring finger, “it shows the hobbit is married.”

“Oh, really?” Bofur asks, interested. “That’s interesting. Similar to that of Men, then?”

Bilbo nods, eyes flickering to Nori, Bombur and Balin who chatter loudly, awaking and annoying Thorin who manages to call out over the fire, informing them to be quiet in lazy Khuzdul. Dori and Gloin return to the camp, arms full of firewood.

“See, for Dwarves things are obviously a little different,” Bofur explains around the food in his mouth. “We don’t invest in rings or bangles, but we do like necklaces and earrings. See,” he pulls his necklace from under his tunic. Bilbo examines it, admiring the colour of the gem. “Thorin gave it to me when we were lads. He has a matchin’ one.” He places his bowl to the side, away from Thorin’s legs, which can kick restlessly in his sleep. Bofur reaches down Thorin’s tunic with careful fingers, hushing Bilbo when he tells him not to worry. He pulls the necklace from under Thorin’s many layers and pulls his close, showing Bilbo they match. Thorin grumbles at Bofur’s touch.

“A courting gift?” Bilbo asks, finishing his food and burping.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Bofur confirms, “braids are also important, and how they are braided, where in the hair and so on,” he explains, “though Thorin and I have never really paid much attention to tradition, lad.”

Bilbo rests heavily against the log, shifting to sit on the floor, though giving Bofur his full attention. “I can’t imagine being married for so long,” he comments.

Bofur chuckles. “We’ve been married for one hundred and eighteen. We’ve been a couple for one hundred and fifty one.”

“Fuck,” Bilbo responds, astonished. “I don’t know how you can put up with someone that long!”

Bofur’s face becomes serious at the halfling’s words, though he is not offended. “It’s common in Dwarvish culture, but wha’ can I say, lad? I love my husband.” He smiles broadly and bends awkwardly to kiss Thorin, who shifts in his grip and turns so that his face is pressed against Bofur’s stomach. Bofur smiles when his lips hit Thorin’s temple instead, and he pulls back and caresses the back of the King’s neck who hums appreciatively in his sleep. He responds in kind when Thorin murmurs against his stomach that he loves Bofur.

Fili and Kili return from Beorn’s housing with more ale, Fili perking up at the sight of his uncle cuddling. He playfully snuggles up to Thorin, something he hasn’t done since he was a mere boy, Bofur notices with a smirk, and huffs out a laugh when Thorin grunts and kicks a leg haphazardly in his nephew’s direction.

“No!” Thorin protests, “Bofur only.”

Dwalin rumbles out a laugh, bending and clapping Thorin on the back as he walks around the fire. He and several of the others are beginning to retreat to the rooms they are sleeping in, Beorn’s hospitality has been extremely kind.

—

When he finally gets Thorin to bed, the king is now awake, though still drunk. Bofur gives his husband an exasperated smile, he is tired and now, unfortunately, Thorin is not. He can tell by the twinkle in Thorin’s eye that sex is officially on the table. The glint lingers, and Bofur cannot help but chuckle. They must take advantage of this opportunity, so few and far between to feel the closeness of Thorin’s body next to his own.

Being the king, Thorin has his own room, and Bofur easily strips Thorin to nakedness, who lays on the bed with a content smile. He leans up eagerly when Bofur crouches over him to kiss him, thighs opening to allow Bofur to lay between them. Bofur relishes at the warmth, and the smell of Thorin, his face smushed in the king’s chest, taking deep, calming breaths. He winds his arms around Thorin’s torso and moves upward, kissing his neck.

Thorin is a mess of limbs, Bofur notices, heated and uncaring in his arousal as Bofur ruts against him. The king releases a long sigh when Bofur’s lips hit the tip of his cock, his pelvis trembles under Bofur’s hands. Thorin is eager tonight, the alcohol dropping his inhibitions and making him vocal and needy, his chest and neck flushed in his pleasure. Bofur works Thorin slowly, the pads of his fingers massaging Thorin’s balls carefully, humming in appreciation with Thorin’s breath hitches with a drawn out moan. “Oh, Bofur, please.” Thorin begs, hips jerking uselessly under Bofur’s palm, “please, come on, please.”

The king’s head rolls to the side, eyes clouded in his lust and bends his left leg alongside Bofur, groaning when his cock hits the back of Bofur’s throat. Thorin’s body twists as he is pleasured, the heat of Bofur’s mouth forcing his eyes to roll back into his head. Bofur releases him, hushing Thorin who whimpers at the loss, spreading his legs wider around Bofur’s hips when he reaches for the oil in his bag next to the bed.

Bofur smirks down at Thorin, intoxicated by both mead and lust, and kisses him thoroughly, his tongue caressing Thorin’s own. He rubs his tongue along the king’s, pulling away when Thorin whines for him to continue. He rolls his hips against Thorin who grabs him tightly, his fingers needy as they wrap around his forearm, the other winding behind him and around his neck. He kisses Thorin’s mouth quickly, resting his forehead against his husband’s before crouching down further to prepare him.

Preparation is not something they bothered with ordinarily, having indulged in the act so often, but as Bofur breaches Thorin with one finger, he shivers in delight at the tightness and heat that surrounds his finger. Thorin’s leg drops to the mattress at the intrusion, mouth going slack with anticipation. “Hurry up, Bofur,” Thorin says, barely grimacing when Bofur returns with two fingers. He bends his fingers quickly, but carefully searching for the correct spot and jolts in surprise when Thorin’s hips jerk and his thighs clamp around him, breath hissing out of his mouth between gritted teeth.

“Been too long, aye, Thorin,” Bofur comments, running his spare hand over Thorin’s abdomen, eager to be inside his husband. Thorin groans in reply, needy moans dropping from his mouth as Bofur thrusts his fingers inside. Bofur feels his mouth salivate at the sight, disrupted by Thorin pressing his heel into the small of his back to hurry him along. He slicks himself with the oil and pushes inside Thorin with a steady thrust, sheathing himself inside until he is balls deep. He runs his palms along the inner thighs of his husband, feeling the muscles twitch under the skin at the strain of their activity, smirking when Thorin sighs at his touch.

“Thorin,” Bofur manages to choke out when Thorin rolls his hips, “oh, fuck.”

“That’s the point, Bofur,” Thorin slurs, back arching when Bofur begins to thrust steadily, pinning Thorin down easily. Thorin responds in kind, wraps wrapping around Bofur’s shoulders and forcing his head next to his husband’s. He breathes in the comfort that is Thorin, lets his embrace warm is heart and remind him of home. Thorin arches against him, moaning against Bofur’s neck as he begins to come. Bofur knows that tonight’s activities are not just about the pleasure for them, the closeness they have not indulged in on this journey seeps into their blood, their love-making frantic and noisy.

Bofur pants, quickly, releasing gasping breaths when Thorin tightens around them and comes, his orgasm messy. Thorin’s body is taut and rigid through his climax, fingers digging into his forearms harshly, sure to leave marks. Bofur’s mouth drops open in his own pleasure, jerky thrusts replacing his more controlled movements, spilling inside Thorin with a loud groan and murmur of his name.

He sags against Thorin’s chest, who chuckles, the rumbling working it’s way through his chest, and Bofur closes his eyes contently at the sound. He lays his head on Thorin’s chest, pressing soft kisses against the strong muscles. He lifts his head and kisses Thorin again, smiling, when he notices the king’s drowsiness. They do not move from their position, falling into a restful sleep for the first night amongst many.

—

Thorin halts the Company behind him with a raised fist. Bofur walks over to his husband’s side, peering into his face, Thorin’s expression confused. Thorin moves his head to the side as he takes in the forest’s appearance, and runs a hand over his face as his eyebrows form a frown. Bofur remains silent, unsure of his own words, evaluating the forest also. The king steps forward, hesitantly, drawing the attention from Balin and Bilbo, who walk over to them.

“We have to go through this forest it would seem,” Balin says.

Thorin whips his head around at the statement, lip curled in distaste. Bilbo’s face scrunches in confusion, and Balin rubs his hands together. “Erebor is not too far from here, Thorin,” Balin says, “Several weeks. But we must travel through this forest to make Durin’s day.”

“I am aware.” Thorin responds, continuing to eye the forest warily. “I once knew this forest.”

Bofur glances at Thorin quickly. Bilbo perks up at the idea, then realises the meaning of Thorin’s words more closely. “You knew?” He asks hesitantly, re-adjusting his bag on his back.

“Yes, I knew,” Thorin says, “an evil lingers here I have not known. This is the forest of Mirkwood. But, upon seeing it, I am no longer sure.”

Thorin unsheathes his war hammer from the arsenal tied to his back. Bilbo takes a cautionary step backwards, and Balin raises an alarmed eyebrow at Thorin’s actions. Thorin raises the hammer and flings it, his wrist twisting somewhat awkwardly as the hammer is released from his grip. Thorin watches intently as he straightens, the hammer colliding with a large tree meters away from where they stand. The hammer causes the tree a fair amount of damage, but lays on the soil in front.

Bofur gasps in surprise, biting his lip as Thorin narrows his eyes at the scene. Bilbo shuffles next to Bofur and asks, “what the on Earth was that about?”

“This forest is cursed,” Thorin snaps over his shoulder, moving to fetch the war hammer. “This is no ordinary collaboration of trees, Master Baggins. The tree should have become stuck, split or collapsed under the weight of the hammer.”

Bilbo smirks, possibly sceptical of Thorin’s strength, or the hammer. Bpfur nudges him to the side, and tells the hobbit to attempt to lift the piece of warcraft. Bilbo grabs the handle, scowling at the king’s indignant expression, and attempts to lift the hammer. When Bilbo’s face reddens at the strain, Bofur pats his shoulder and tells him to stop, despite not being able to move it at all.

Thorin picks it up easily and re-attaches it to his back, smirking at the hobbit before barking over to the Company lazily resting on rocks. Fili wanders over to his uncle, who informs him of their plans to venture into the forest. Fili takes a deep breath, and nods, patting Thorin’s arm carefully.

As they venture through the forest, Bofur feels chills run down his spine, the feeling of being watched forcing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. Thorin signals they are to only use Inglishmek in the forest and barks at Bilbo to remain silent until they reach the other side. Thorin signs to Bofur and Balin he knows they are being watched, his lip curled into a sneer over the hand symbol of Elf.

Fili must remain in the centre of the Company, protected more than any other than Thorin. Thorin requires the most protection, but also needs to lead the Company. Dwalin is faithfully by Thorin’s side, alongside Bofur, who watches his husband with curious eyes. Thorin’s eyes flicker around the forest, following the winding paths by his memories, and halts the company when he does not for the first time.

There are two paths laid in front of them, and Thorin murmurs a low curse when he attempts to remember the road. Bofur places a comforting hand on his chest and nods at Thorin, signalling to take his time, that they can protect themselves, should it come to it. 

“They are in the trees,” Thorin whispers, and Bilbo and Ori whip their heads up in alarm.

“Aye,” Bofur responds, signalling behind him for the others to remain calm.

Thorin frowns, his lips pursed into a thin line. “What happened here?” He asks, though seemingly at no one.

Thorin catches the arrow before anyone sees it, not even five centimetres away from his face. He holds the arrow in front of him, smirking at recognising the wings. Bofur jumps in shock, and Dwalin pushes the King back into the centre alongside Fili. Thorin snaps the arrow in half, grunting at being manhandled so easily. Thorin pushes the others aside when an Elf approaches them, his tone dripping with bitterness as he greets him.

“Thranduil.”

The elf dips his head in acknowledgement. The dwarves gather around Thorin protectingly, crossing their axes across his body, stopping any harm that may fall upon him. Thorin sneers up at the dwarf who does nothing but give him a short smile.

“What brings you to my woods?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

“Forgive me, Bofur,” Thorin whispers, mouth filling with blood and seeping through and staining his lips. Bofur shakes his head, lost of how to comfort his husband. He wipes the blood away from his chin, snapping his eyes closed when Thorin begins to cough and heave more blood. Bofur can see his husband’s injuries, fatal, and steadily bleeding.

“I have nothing to forgive, love,” he replies shakily, blinking quickly to rid his eyes of tears. He clings to Thorin’s arms.

“I love you.” Thorin manages, “I will always love you.”

Bofur feels his heart clench in his chest, wiping the tears from his eyes before they can fall. Thorin’s words cut him deep, he knows these are their last moments together, he feels helpless, and he is terrified. He has walked one hundred and fifty nine years in Thorin’s constant presence. Bofur squeezes Thorin’s hand, moving to cradle his neck when the king’s head rolls to the side.

“I love you, Thorin.” He flinches when he feels Thorin’s blood pooling in his hands, and Bofur looks down, releasing a wet cry when he sees his hands are soaked with his husband’s blood. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Thorin’s lips, who gives him a smile.

Bofur holds Thorin’s body close when he leaves for the houses of his fathers. Thorin’s eyes shed tears upon his last breaths, his eyes clouded with impending death, lips lax and his body loose as death overtook him. Bofur caressed Thorin’s face with his thumbs, sobs rippling through him as he felt his husband’s last breaths leave his lungs.

Bofur scrunches his eyes shut helplessly, holding onto the deluded fantasy that the current events are nothing more than a nightmare he so often had. That Thorin has not died in his arms. Upon opening them, the king’s body remains the same.

The blood that stains Thorin’s tunic wets his cheek as he presses his face against his husband’s chest helplessly, tears mingling with the blood and dirt. He cannot recall how long he sat at Thorin’s side, his hand buried in Bofur’s own. He cannot recall the amount of tears he shed, he does not recall which dwarves came to him in his grief, nor does he remember who forced him to sleep in a bed so lonely and so empty. 

He is used to separation from Thorin. He is used to being away from his love, his husband, for several months at a time. Bofur weeps into the pillow, fumbling with tired and bloodied hands for his necklace, clutching it to his heart as he begins to understand that he will never walk by Thorin’s side until death takes him too.

Death is something that has always scared him. Who is to stay in the world, and linger on without the other, and who is to pass, resting and in wait for their reunion. The numb feeling in his stomach fades, the horrid feeling of bile reaches his throat before he can stop it, emptying the little food and water he has consumed onto the floor.

Erebor has been retaken, the glory of the dwarves is now to begin. Dain comes to him for orders and command, but Bofur does not speak. He cannot fathom running such a glorious Kingdom without Thorin. Without Thorin, Fili and Kili. It means nothing to Bofur, and he has always known it never has. He loved Erebor, yes, but he loved Erebor because he loved Thorin. 

He looks at Dain with bloodshot eyes, the king’s cousin is silent as he waits for instruction, though his face deceives him also, biting his lip as he attempts to hold back his own emotion. He informs Dain he cannot run the kingdom in Thorin’s stead, even though it was Thorin’s wishes. He gestures to the King’s crown upon the table, in the chambers that were once he and Thorin’s. Dain looks at it and returns his gaze to Bofur.

“My King,” Bofur begins, and Dain blanches at the title. Bofur ignores his response, settling on peering out of the window. “You must, Dain. I cannot.”

Dain remains silent for a long time, long enough that Bofur finally looks back at him. Bofur stands and approaches Dain, blinding reaching for the crown on the table and gently places it upon the other’s head. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against Dain’s who releases a choked sob.

“I cannot,” Bofur repeats, and breaks away from Dain when a dwarf-maid enters the chambers holding a tray of food. She places it on the table, fussing around at the sight of vomit, cleaning it quickly, persistent in her questions over his health. He brushes her off, and she leaves with concerned eyes.

“This Kingdom is not mine,” Dain says, voice grumbling and choked, straining from lack of use. Bofur nods in agreement, returning to his seat alongside the window. “It is not mine either, Dain. I may be wed to Thorin, but this Kingdom means little to me without him. Please, as your King, become one yourself.”

Dain nods hesitantly, “I still require your assistance, Bofur. At least give me that.”

Bofur agrees, and Dain leaves to begin his kingly duties. Bofur watches him go, releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He fiddles with his necklace again, unclasping the gem from his neck and holding it in his calloused palms. Tears fall from his eyes before he realises they are welling in his eyes, his entire body rattled with sorrow.

He stands, swaying as if drunk on mead, and moves to the balcony. He licks his lips as memories of he and Thorin flicker through his mind, Thorin’s beautiful smile at their wedding day, the joy evident in his eyes as they walked their many paths alongside each other. The necklace falls from his hands as he falls forward, head between his knees as he crouches over. Bofur chokes back the loss of Thorin, attempting to regain his breath, lungs screaming in his chest as he does so.

He slides down the wall of the balcony in despair. _Thorin is gone._

Yet, Bofur lingers.

He lingers on in this life, when it was a constant and nagging worry of Thorin’s that Bofur should depart him first. As they aged, Thorin often worried of his life without Bofur, and now Bofur is left to feel the agony of loss. He faces this grief alone, his heart aches in his chest at the death of Thorin, but also Fili and Kili. He loved them dearly, he considered them family as they were. Their laughter uplifting and their smiles contagious. So young, so innocent though completely loyal.

He feels more alone now than he ever has.

Bofur knows past grief. He has lost both of his parents to the grips of death. He knows that time helped heal those wounds, but he knows in his heart that Thorin’s passing will break him. He weeps openly, arms around his knees as though a small child. Bofur rocks helplessly, eyes locked to the necklace. The gem sits prettily on the balcony floor, gleaming in the sunlight that hits the mountain.

_“This Kingdom will be ours once again, Bofur, you’ll see,” Thorin says proudly. “We will run the Kingdom of Erebor together. I promise you that.”_

Bofur falls asleep on the balcony.

—

Bilbo stays at Erebor longer than anyone expected. He comes to Bofur on the ninth day since Thorin’s death, with a tray full of food. Bofur allows him to enter the chamber, opening the door for him but returns to his spot on the balcony.

They eat in silence. Bofur knows he could not have made conversation even if he wished to, every day drags by him slowly and painfully. The necklace sits on the table, out of harms away. He thought to destroy it, to throw it away, but found he could not. He runs a finger over the smooth surface of the gem often, though does not wear it.

“I just stopped by to make sure you are okay,” Bilbo speaks for the first time.

Bofur tilts his head in recognition, and resumes eating. He reaches for his pipe with tired, fumbling fingers, readjusting on the sofa couch so he can curl up into a ball.

“I am sorry for your loss, Bofur, I’m so sorry.” Bilbo says, reaching out and placing a small hand on his shoulder. Bofur mumbles a croaky thank you, and Bilbo takes his leave.

_”I love you,” Thorin says, eyes alight and smiling. He winds his arms around Bofur’s waist. “I will always love you.”_

Bofur bites his lip at the hurtful memory and sighs. How long is he going to last without Thorin? How long shall he linger on, hopeless and lonely? He cannot fathom the thought of another lover, his heart cannot manage it, dwarves love only once in their lives. He shifts in vain, trying to dull the pain that clenched in his heart, the rasping of his breath when he grieves. 

Bofur regretfully clasps the gem around his neck before he resides to bed, clutching it harshly and cares little if he breaks the chain.

—

He sees Thorin standing on the other side of the lake. He knows he must be dreaming. He must be hallucinating of the sort, mind playing tricks on him as though in a dream. But Thorin smiles at him, broadly and gives him a wave. He calls out Bofur’s name, gesturing to cross the waters and to him. The sun is high in the sky, warming him and basking the landscape around them with light. So much light, a light that Bofur has not seen, nor cared to see since Thorin’s death.

The sunlight reminds him of their wedding day.

“Bofur! Come to me,” Thorin calls.

Bofur does not hesitate. He removes most of his heavy clothing and boots, stepping forward and into the water. The water is pleasant on his skin, cool but not cold. His eyes never leave Thorin, to has now taken a seat on the bank, continuing to gesture him over.

As though an invisible shield has thrust itself between them, Bofur struggles to step forward. He trains his hearing to Thorin’s voice only, struggles against the barrier but eventually makes it through. He does not understand what it was nor where it came from but he trudges along. The water is against him, forcing him backward as Thorin ushers him on.

His muscles ache, lungs screaming in protest at his actions, dwarves rarely indulge in swimming at the best of times. “Bofur, love,” Thorin says, “come to my voice. Come to me.” Bofur shakes his head, heart clenching at the desperation in Thorin’s voice, and struggles through the water that appears placid, though isn’t. 

He reaches the middle of the water, heaving at the strain, confused as to why he cannot swim across. Bofur continues to swim, passing the barrier that reveals itself once again, this time with greater ease. Pain coils in the base of his spine as he passes through it, he flinches when he feels the invisible shield come over him again. Thorin is now ankle deep in the water, crouching and offering his hands to Bofur who grabs them, needy, his emotions overwhelmed at the turn of events.

He staggers out of the water and hugs Thorin close to his body.

“You’ve made me so proud,” Thorin whispers, and Bofur sobs heavily in his arms, hands splayed across his husband’s body, weeping messily into his neck.

“I missed you, so much,” Bofur says, hands grappling at the clothing Thorin wore. “I love you.”

“I know, I missed you too.” Thorin replies and shifts around so that he is more comfortable. He presses his mouth to Bofur’s lips, murmuring ‘I love you’ as he kisses them. They embrace for a long time, Bofur’s arms wound tight around Thorin’s midsection, the thought of letting go brings tears to his eyes.

Thorin goes with him as he falls to the soggy sand of the bank. Thorin brushes a comforting hand over his neck, kissing his temple, his arms warm and dry as they hold him. Bofur sobs against Thorin, clutching his husband so tightly he knows he is hurting him, but Thorin says nothing. He does nothing but offer words of comfort to Bofur.

“Where are we?” He asks, voice muffled against Thorin’s collarbone.

“We are in death,” Thorin responds, “it was your time to rejoin me.”

Bofur pulls back and stares at Thorin. Thorin smiles at him and cups his face in his hands. He marvels at the sight of Thorin, whose face and body haunted his mind as he wept. He touches the other’s chest, releasing a choked cry when he sees the necklace around his neck. Thorin smiles again. He presses a finger against Bofur’s chest, gently pushing the gem against his sternum.

“I think you knew in your heart, it was time to meet me here, Bofur,” Thorin states, kissing his cheek quickly and moving his arms around Bofur. Bofur relishes in the warmth and the scent of Thorin, he leans into Thorin’s touch when he wipes his tears away with careful thumbs. “You haven’t worn your necklace for some time.”

“It hurt me,” Bofur replies, hiccuping. “It constantly reminded me of you, love.”

“Aye,” Thorin says and begins to untie Bofur’s braids. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging on the knots and letting the strands fall over his shoulders. Bofur dips his head and rests it against Thorin. Thorin kisses his temple again before continuing, “Yet today you wear it.”

Bofur dips his head and rests it against Thorin’s shoulder. They sit next to each other for some time, wrapped around each other and content. Bofur peeks up at Thorin regularly through his eyelashes, smiling when his husband notices each time. He runs a tentative finger over Thorin’s lip and leans up to kiss him. He feels Thorin’s smile against his lips shifting when his hands adjust them so that Bofur sits between Thorin’s knees.

“I have missed you more than you know,” Bofur says, and he knows that it isn’t a necessary statement. He needs to say it he needs Thorin to know how much his death hurt him for some reason, he can’t define it. He, himself, is or now was, surprised that his husband’s death limited everything in his life. Bofur kisses Thorin’s cheek when he confirms that he does.

“We cannot live on much longer without our loves,” Thorin says, cupping his face in his hands. He rests his forehead against Bofur’s own. “Once our love is lost, so are we.”

—

“He is gone, Bombur, I am sorry,” Gandalf says, regaining full height as he crouched over Bofur’s body. Bombur nods, and sniffles as he reaches forward and caresses Bofur’s hand. The nursemaid whispers her condolences, and Bombur looks up with a sad smile and allows her to leave.

“He was gone when Thorin died, Gandalf.” Bombur says, moving Bofur’s hands so they cross his chest. “He is with Thorin now, yes?”

Gandalf nods. “He is indeed.”

\- fin


End file.
